


Even to the Edge of Doom

by archiekennedy



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-29
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-03-04 02:30:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2905928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archiekennedy/pseuds/archiekennedy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at the end of Retribution, some flashbacks to previous interactions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even to the Edge of Doom

**Author's Note:**

> "Even to the Edge of Doom" is a reference to Shakespeare's sonnet 116.   
> Alternating points of view between Archie and Horatio.

Archie:

It was a strange feeling, not being able to move. The bandages across my chest restricted my breathing, so that every breath I took made a shallow rattling noise. It was hot inside my cell, and a swarm of flies was making its way back and forth between my cell and the ones adjacent. The humidity added to the general feeling of decay, the smell of sweat and unwashed bloodstained bandages only made the flies come back again and again in bigger numbers. I sometimes wondered why the flies didn’t just fly out my window. I was one of the few prisoners with a window, and at first I considered myself fortunate. It was a small window, with bars only as thick as my finger. I used to lie on my cot all day while the trial took place nearby, and watch the gulls flying above. They had not a care in the world for the scenes that played out below. Oh, they were used to it indeed. I soon realized why the magistrate had given me my window. On the morning of the third day, I woke at dawn to the sound of hammers.

Clang, clang! The bell rung. Bang, bang! Went the hammers.

The men outside, some of them prisoners, each held a hammer and had a blue handkerchief tied about his head. I knew not what they were doing, darting about with planks and hammers like the flies in the cells. Slowly they nailed their planks together, splicing wood together with steel needles until their behemoth was unveiled. It had four legs, each with supporting ligaments to support its monstrous body. The men took off their handkerchiefs and wiped the sweat from their foreheads. Their deadly masterpiece stood in the courtyard, silent and hungry. Since I could not witness the trial, the magistrate had given me a worse punishment than that of all the other men. Which one of us would be fed to this great wooden arachnid? Which of us would have our lieutenant’s hats replaced with a black hood? I had thought the Justinian a prison, but now I could not even yell to the men who built that foul contraption, as the bandages across my chest were too tight.

The seagulls called above me, perched on the monster’s wooden gallows as if it were just another tree, a mast to a ship about to set sail. The magistrate had not let anyone but Mr. Bush see me, as he was only a witness and had injuries as well. Horatio and the others were all on the other side of the base. For the first week, every day for an hour Mr. Bush would have his dressings redone. No sign of mortification. Lucky devil. You’ll be alright, though I can’t say the same for that fellow. Mr. Bush had given me a sympathetic glance, and for the first time in weeks, one of my own companions spoke to me:

“Keep your head up, Mr. Kennedy,” then he walked out, never looking back.

***

Prison cells always awoke my worst memories. Jack. He was always there, lurking at the back of my mind, ready to strike whenever my defences were lowered. As I fell asleep, he would pull me down, out of consciousness, holding his knife in front of his lantern, the light reflecting off of the steel surface and back onto his face. Just enough so that all I could see in the darkness were his glimmering eyes and twisted smile, just as he had done aboard the Justinian, in such a way that I was never sure whether my memories of him were reality or just constant nightmares inflicted upon me by some sadistic god.

Close your eyes. Close your eyes so that you can wake up in the morning and pretend it was all a bad dream. Close your eyes so that you don’t remember his smirk, his flashing eyes. Close your eyes, but you can still hear the snores of the other midshipmen who have learned to tune Jack’s violence out. Close your eyes, and you can still hear the other sailors above, drinking, singing and not giving a damn. Close your eyes and you can still hear his laugh.

And it wasn’t the pain that haunted my dreams. I had starved in a Spanish prison and I did not fear pain. When I dreamed now, I dreamed of his eyes, creeping out of the darkness with his lantern, not even needing to use his little finger to beckon me. His laugh, which could ring out high and loud and nasal since nobody would ever stop him even if they heard. Try to remember lines from Shakespeare to drown out his laugh. A rite of initiation into His Majesty’s royal fleet, he called it, though I was the only one who was ever initiated.

No, no. He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. Shot in the heart. He’s dead and he’s not coming back. He’s been gone for nearly ten years. Don’t bring him back to life.

Once I tried to stay awake all night to keep Simpson out of my mind. I picked at my bandages so that the pain would keep me awake. Then doctor Clive came in and cuffed my hands together. Those bandages cost money. Don’t go destroying them. I’m already having to waste them on you. So I had to go to sleep, and pray that that wicked laugh would not bring on a fit.

Even to the edge of doom. Horatio said he could protect me, but now he’s too far away and he could be in Spain again for all I know. Shit Horatio, I don’t care where you are, say it with me. Even to the edge of doom.

Horatio: 

The deposition went on for ages. It started at dawn and went on until midnight, and that was if they hadn’t switched the clocks to keep us there later. I kept raising my hand to my hand, and realizing that my admiral’s hat was nowhere to be found.

When I first arrived in the courtroom, it was as if none of the old captains recognized me. Captain Pellew’s face was as stern and still as a block of granite. I could have been anybody and he would not have given me a second chance. Bloody fink, spitting out the words “lieutenant Hornblower” as if his mouth had never uttered those syllables before. Black bloody mutiny, Mr. Hornblower. As if he was not the man who had given me my midshipman’s exam. Ten years had meant nothing. I could be a bit of calking stuck to his shoe and he would have looked at me no differently.

At least they hadn’t brought in ex-captain Sawyer, I thought. At least this courtroom still has some bearings of civilization. Acting captain Buckland (dare I call him that? All he ever did was nothing at all) stumbled as usual, walking a fine line between keeping his reputation and keeping his lies as believable as possible.

A cloud of gnats made slow laps around the ceiling, The judge would adjust his wig every few minutes so that it wouldn’t stick to his head in the heat. Englishmen aren’t meant for the tropics, I heard someone mutter.

***

It had always seemed to be raining aboard ships at sea. Decks coated with algae and sails and rigging throwing down huge sheets of rain. The sea would roll and toss the boat about, as if Neptune himself had a grudge against our pathetic little boat. Or against me in particular. The only sailor aboard that whole boat with sea sickness. Getting a late start, they would say, if you want sea legs, you start at age twelve. You’re nearly twenty.

Welcome to purgatory. Just as I had slept for the first time in a week, I was woken by a cry. It sounded like a sob, then like the wails of a man being tortured. Then a cough stuck in a throat. As the Justinian pitched to and fro, I made my way over to the sound. A boy twitched in his hammock, neither awake nor asleep.

Get back to sleep Hornblower, snarled Simpson, he always does that. Don’t bother yourself. Then he held out a knife and I had scampered back to my hammock, doing my best to ignore the boy’s cries. Kennedy’s just like that. A fragile constitution he’s got. Nothing to be done about that.

***

Then we had run, run from prison, away from Hunter, away from the Spanish. I thought we had gotten rid of his nightmares. But the first night back on the Indy, I heard again the cries I knew too well. Simpson! Simpson, I’m sorry. 

He’s gone. He’s dead. He’s dead, I swear to you he’s dead. Shot straight through the chest. Point blank range. And for the first time, or so I believe, his fit stopped after only a minute. Simpson was gone. Archie gripped my arm, smiling, whispering, he’s gone, he’s dead, he’s followed me but he’s gone. Jesus Horatio, he’s really gone. It’s funny, you keep turning up, though. With me, I mean. Even to the edge of doom, eh?

And I knew near nothing of Shakespeare. I only smiled and nodded. His fits would cease now, and that was cause enough for joy. But his smile continued even as he moved his lips to mine. 

Even to the edge of doom.

Archie: 

Doctor Clive comes over and starts to redo my dressings. He smells the bandages, wrinkling his nose. His head is bare, since the humidity was too much for him and no superior can see him now, without his wig. He slaps at the flies that try to drink the sweat from his forehead. They make circles around his bald head, making lazy ovals of orbit around a dead sun. I cough, and Clive winces, turning his face away from the little flecks of blood that spew from my throat.

Have you seen lieutenant Hornblower, I ask. Doctor Clive is silent. Horatio, have you seen Horatio? Doctor Clive says nothing. He stands up, and looks at me with disgust, whether at my gangrene or at my question I cannot tell. Black bloody mutiny, lieutenant Hornblower. The penalty for whoever pushed the captain is death by hanging. We’ll feed them to the silent spider that waits outside. Death by hanging for saying his name like that, violating the Articles of War. And I have asked where Horatio is and Doctor Clive knows more than he ought. He leaves my bandages undone, and the flies swarm to my belly, slowly blending in with the black line around my middle, an ever changing border between life and death. Shit. And I can’t bat them away, my arms are too heavy.

Bang, bang. The hammers clang. A man slings a rope up over the scaffold, its knot empty, gaping, waiting for new prey. The rope swings in the wind, slowly, like a pendulum of a grandfather clock counting down the minutes until one of us is done for. Shit, Horatio. Where are you now? Even to the edge of doom, you said. But I’m scared and I’m dying, the line in my belly is splitting me in half. The flies are eating me alive. Come put my bandages back, keep me here a little longer. Because if I die now, you’ll go to the gallows.

***

And suddenly I can feel again. My arms no longer feel like lead. I lift my head up slowly. Then my chest. Don’t look at the flies. Don’t look at the black line. I take a trembling hand and press my bandages down. My lieutenant’s coat hangs by my bed, its tarnished bronze buttons winking at me. It feels too big on me, like the weight I’ve lost has reduced me back to a tiny midshipman once again. Simpson can’t touch me now. I can walk now, and I clear my throat. I can speak. Clive is nowhere to be seen. I place my coat over my shoulders, and brace my hand on the bedpost. The rusted iron feels rough against my hand. I can stand. I fasten my jacket shut. There is certainly room to spare. I feel like a small child playing dress-up. A knight in shining armor off to save his prince.

The cell door is unlocked, nobody thought I could so much as stand. Crossing to the door feels like ten miles. Out the door and down the corridor. Nobody looks up from their cot. Each has his own swarm of flies. Finally I reach that black door.

Inside I hear Buckland giving his last testimony. Captain Sawyer was unfit for command, he says.

Pellew the traitor. Do not blacken the name of one of Nelson’s own.

He didn’t fall into the hold, he was pushed! By Lieutenant Horatio Hornblower!

No. This is all wrong. He can’t say that. I see Bush give Horatio a glance. No. They can’t believe him. They mustn’t believe him.

And I pound on the door, the black line between me and those terrible men. Between me and Horatio. The metal grates at my knuckles as I use the last of my strength. Somebody opens the door, and I say what I must say. Horatio stands up, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, but silent.

I see Horatio’s blue figure rushing over, then his blue coat and brown hair blur and merge into the black of the ceiling, the dull whitewashed walls. All is flowing together, as if a painter has forgotten to add defining lines to his creation, and all colours and shapes flow together. So ends the last voyage of Lieutenant Archie Kennedy.

Horatio:

The magistrate had left the windows of the courtroom open, and now new swarms of flies buzzed in lazily, along with the sound of the hammers. Clang, Clang, the sound of hammers on nails. Tick tock. Soon somebody will hang.

Buckland spits out his poison, his sentence that will carry me to my death. So be it. But then the door rattles on its hinges. A figure of a man wavers behind it, unable to pound the door and stand at the same time. I see a shock of ginger hair as an aid opens the door. No. No it can’t be.

Archie falters and grips onto the door jamb, a small trickle of blood flowing like a tiny spring out of the corner of his mouth. I alone pushed him.

Then he collapses before I can reach him, like a ragdoll thrown about in a storm.

***

Horatio, so quick to give, so slow to accept the simplest gift. See? Better already.

They named my new ship the Retribution. It was fitting, I suppose. Justice was gained and a scapegoat found for His Majesty’s honour. I expected no less. He shall go to his grave without the merit of his good name.


End file.
